


?

by homicidalpotato



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anger, Confessions, Drug Use, Drug-Induced Sex, Firsts, Jealous Sherlock, Jealousy, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-19 23:22:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3628089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homicidalpotato/pseuds/homicidalpotato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is angry.<br/>The vase on the table balances precariously close to the edge, and Sherlock taps it with his finger and sends it toppling.<br/>He can’t figure out what exactly he can’t figure out and he can’t remember anything but John and opium and nicotine and betrayal, and his thoughts seem to be constricting him within his own mind and he wants to smash his head against the mahogany table to let his thoughts escape.<br/>Perhaps he is going to explode.<br/>His fingers dance over the smooth wood and he doesn’t know why, and all he can see and think and hear is JohnJohnJohnJohnJohn as he taps on the surface and he wants to scream.<br/>But, of course, he doesn’t, he just gazes at discoloured forty-year old male’s spleen and a thirty-six year old female’s left ventricle in two separate jars on the kitchen counter.<br/>He remembers John and his calloused skin and worry and how easy he is to read, and he remembers John sitting in the worn armchairs in the dusty flat and Sherlock wants and wants and wants in a way he hasn’t ever before and he hates how badly he doesn’t want the want to go away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The beginning is awful, I sincerely apologise.
> 
> (please do comment and tell me whether it moves too fast or if I should keep the ending of this chapter)

Sherlock isn’t angry at first, no. Living in solitary really isn’t all that horrible, he doesn’t have to fret over thr emotions of others (John), or take the time to buy groceries or prepare tea or order takeout for someone other than himself, and that is what he grows accustomed to. However, the humongous and surprisingly overwhelming feelings that Sherlock was shocked to find he had the capacity for when he was forced to truly let go of his old flatmate was terrifying.

The lack of another person in a household really can be quite a shockingly lonely feeling when one is not familiarized to the immediate lack of close quarters and the fact that there is not another living creature partially in the care of the other, especially when after a long and ornate thinking session coming to the conclusion that the person you had been living with had not only been viewed by Sherlock as friend but had begun to morph into the object of his affections.

Sherlock curses.

His pallid fingers fumble with the dusty little bag of cocaine he holds in his hand. Sherlock hasn’t been anywhere near anything of the sort for approximately two months, but the terrifying boredom compels him to dig out his secret stash he kept tucked under Charles Dickens on the top shelf of his bookcase.

In his Mind Palace, a pretend, make-believe fantasy John tells him not to do it. He does not listen, and it takes nearly a minute for the high to hit him.

Then, the anger washes through him, little by little, remorse, sorrow, emotion, and the idea of feeling hurts his head.

Sherlock rests his head atop his hands, fingers peaked, and he thinks.

He begins to feel sadness, but within moments it transforms into a little red-hot flame burning within his chest. He snorts more. Perhaps if he does enough he will spontaneously combust.

He hears a thump, thinking, his mind buzzing, as he hopes it is John. His heart races.

But it is not John, it is just Mrs. Hudson.

He starts to get angrier, how dare John leave him? And to think it would be the same, idiot, but perhaps there is no one to blame but himself, empty and emotionless towards his flatmate for far too long, so long that John slipped from his grasp.

With a swift motion, he pulls on his woolen coat and sweeps down the stair. Perhaps a walk will clear his mind, as all that occupies his thoughts is Mary. He hates Mary. He hates that she is so perfect, so ordinary, however very much not, but she masks her extraordinary bits unimaginably well and Sherlock almost goes as far to say that he is jealous.

The air is brisk and no one is out, and Sherlock walks on, taking  large strides, and he does not stop until he reaches Dorset Square. His anger still flares inside of him. He punches a bench and his knuckles bleed. The bench is splintered.

His high begins to cease, and his anger sizzles into a vehement sorrow. His large mind seems to restrict him and all he can see when he closes his eyes is a Pretend John, and he thinks that perhaps he is going insane.

He falls asleep on the park bench

-

Next Tuesday, John comes to visit.

Sherlock pretends that he hasn’t been hopelessly missing his ex-flatmate, and he stands rigid in John’s arms as John greets him, putting on his hardened facade of emotionless thoughts and non-existent feelings. Oh, how he wishes it were so simple.

His heart aches as John tells him stories about Mary and Sherlock wants to care but he doesn’t, really. He wants to hear John telling him how much he misses 221B, and he wants John to sit closer, and he wants John to be happy. Perhaps the worst part is that John is happy.

Pretend-John tells Sherlock that it’s alright.

Sherlock wishes feelings weren’t so complicated.

“Sherlock? Are you alright? You don’t seem to be listening,” John asks, and Sherlock is all too aware that John’s fingers are resting on his knee.

Sherlock concludes that he is fine, putting aside the unsettling feeling Sherlock acquires when he looks at John. His heart is still beating, so there is no dire matter that needs to be taken care of at the moment. He hasn’t even done any type of illegal substance or stimulants for two days in preparation for John’s anticipated visit in order to cleanse himself and cause John the least amount of sorrow or anger.

“Yes,” Sherlock answers, his face stiff. John smiles.

“Next week, then,” John says, and he pats the tops of Sherlock’s leg in a friendly gesture.

Sherlock forces a small smile, and John leaves. (John always seems to be leaving.)

Sometimes, Sherlock wonders if killing John would make himself forget about his unrequited and painfully confusing feelings for the man. He ascertains that he hates the man nearly as much as he has a lust for him.

Pretend-John tells Sherlock to calm down, and Sherlock does, but not before  shooting the yellow smiley-face on the wall. He does not sleep, but merely ponders all night long.

 -

On Thursday, his anger is at a high. Illogical hostility courses through his body, and his head hurts. He hasn’t slept in four days.

He pulls a syringe out of a black suitcase he received from one of his numerous links. With great precaution, he fills it with morphine and slowly injects it into his left inner arm.

A warm feeling floods over him, and he sees it as such a relief to escape the dull routine of such an awful existence.

( _John helped him escape. He wants John_.)

Pretend-John does not even bother to tell Sherlock that what he is doing is wrong.

He can barely hear the phone ring through the warmth and artificial happiness that courses through his veins. His movements are clumsy.

“Hello, Sherlock!”

John is on the phone.

Sherlock answers with an incoherent response, and John begins to worry.

Five minutes later, John arrives, but Sherlock is already gone and in the park again.

 -

John comes to visit on Wednesday afternoon, and John brings Sherlock a biscuit from the bakery. Sherlock doesn't eat it, but instead places it carefully in the napkin on the coffee table as a feeble reminder that John is still there.

 -

There is a Grecian love story in which a minor river god named Acis falls in love with a beautiful nymph with the name of Galatea - however, the cyclops Polyphemus also had a fervor for the same nymph. There really was no competition there; a beautiful handsome man versus a hideous creature.

Polyphemus had no chance.

Sherlock supposes he is like Polyphemus, stupid to even believe he could be something that John would ever lust for, unlike the perfect lady Mary. Sherlock is nearly the polar opposite of Mary.

He lays on the couch, clothing strewn about in a terrible mess. He does not even try to disguise the fact that he is falling apart.

He does not bother to calculate the amount of pharmaceuticals in his system either.

 -

Sherlock mumbles, his face contorted into a bit of a smile as both him and John breathe irregularly after catching some domestic criminal. He babbles on about statistics and theories, and John's fingers burn a hole into Sherlock's wrist because he forgot to let go and Sherlock revels in the touch.

Everything feels right as they sit together on the stairs and are touching, laughing, and Sherlock's insanity and John's normalcy seem to balance each other out and it all seems perfect.

 -

It is Tuesday and John is late.

Sherlock worries. He snorts a minor amount or cocaine because he is anxious. Pretend-John warns him not to, but he dismisses him.

Sherlock waits out his high in a rather boring manner, and continues to lie on the couch. He plays with his handgun, twirling it around his finger.

He waits for five hours, and there is no sign of John. Pretend-John smiles apologetically, which only proceeds to further anger Sherlock.

 -

Sherlock receives no contact from John until Thursday, just a text message explaining how John had forgotten to come visit because him and Mary were visiting some friends.

Sherlock grunts, his hand pressed firmly against his side in an attempt to stifle the growing anger and jealousy inside him. He glares at the glowing words on the screen, reading them over again and again.

It dings again.

_sorry._

_JW_

Sherlock is somewhat infuriated at the lack of remorse of his ex-flatmate. He contemplates whether or not he should invite him over, but he decides against it. The clock on the wall is ticking loudly. Everything is quiet. ( _John is not here_.)

Sherlock downs several pills and fall asleep.

 -

It is several weeks later and there has been no contact from John. His flat is a complete mess, and he barely has moved from his unkempt position on the couch, which caused Mrs. Hudson to work herself into a frenzy. He has only had two cups of tea and a biscuit within a week and a half.

The daily routine is to snort enough cocaine or inject enough morphine or take enough opium to feel and then eventually fall asleep, and Sherlock is content. It doesn’t feel boring.

His bones stick sharp out of his loose white shirt and trousers. He begins to doze off, his body caked with sweat.

 -

He does not wake until he hears a sturdy knock on the door to the flat. He can tell by the force applied that it is not John, so he is still and does not bother to get up and open it.

Sunlight shines through the window and catches the dust in its beams.

The door squeaks open, behind it being Lestrade and close behind, Sally.

“I’ve got a case for you, Sherlock,” Lestrade muses, looking at the disheveled man strewn across the old couch.

Sherlock grunts.

“I hope you had a nice time in Venice. The Italian woman you had an affair with must have been very pretty,” Sherlock mumbles, his words slurred, and turns over to face the wall.

His blatant deduction does not even phase Lestrade.

“Come on, Sherlock. You need to get out,” Lestrade says, his familiar aura of unnecessary authority pulsing through his words, nudging Sherlock’s shoulder. “Work on this case, with John. It can be like old times.”

( _Nothing can make it be the same._ )

Sherlock rolls over, his mind a spiderweb and he does not want to think as he is worried he will get stuck in it.

“No.”

Pretend-John tells Sherlock to stop moping.

“I’m calling John. Telling him Sherlock’s gotten bloody terrible,” Lestrade whispers to Sally. Sherlock can hear.

Lestrade walks out into the hallway and dials.

Sherlock doesn’t want to see his best friend. It’s been a month since he last saw him.

It takes exactly eight minutes and forty-seven seconds for John to arrive, Sherlock counts. He anticipates the look on John’s face at the sight of his current predicament, but he does not bother to change his position or hide the evidence of his drug usage.

The door to the flat swings open, through it coming John.

( _John!_ )

“John,” he articulates.

John sighs, dropping to his knees with worry.

“Sherlock, come on.”

John pushes back the brown curls on Sherlock’s head that are plastered to his milky forehead. Lestrade and Sally go out to talk, and by the Inspector's posture it's about Sherlock's condition.

John holds Sherlock’s hand limply, coaxing him to get up and change. Sherlock refuses, but John does not discontinue his pleas.

Finally, Sherlock caves and does as John wants, his cold fingers intertwined with John’s to keep him stable as he stands.

 -

Sherlock watches John and Mary as they dine in the cafe across the street.

They seem content, in a dull whirlwind of domestic bliss. How ordinary. Sherlock scowls, although he does not mean to do so. He wants John and it hurts.

His index finger pops as he clenches his fingers and he isn't angry, but envious and he is not accustomed to feeling so.

Mary pats John’s knee under the table and slides her thin slice of raspberry cheesecake towards the middle of the table, slipping a fork into John’s hand, inviting him to share. John smiles and Sherlock frowns.

This isn’t the way it was supposed to go.

 -

Two days after, John comes to visit. Sherlock plays the violin for him, a piece by Tchaikovsky. The notes move like silk, and John closes his eyes. Sherlock does not face John, but instead faces towards the window, basking in the light.

Sherlock plays for hours and John listens.

 -

Sherlock is angry.

The vase on the table balances precariously close to the edge, and Sherlock taps it with his finger and sends it toppling.

He can’t figure out what exactly he can’t figure out and he can’t remember anything but John and opium and nicotine and betrayal, and his thoughts seem to be constricting him within his own mind and he wants to smash his head against the mahogany table to let his thoughts escape.

Perhaps he is going to explode.

His fingers dance over the smooth wood and he doesn’t know why, and all he can see and think and hear is JohnJohnJohnJohnJohn as he taps on the surface and he wants to scream.

But, of course, he doesn’t, he just gazes at discoloured forty-year old male’s spleen and a thirty-six year old female’s left ventricle in two separate jars on the kitchen counter.

He remembers John and his calloused skin and worry and how easy he is to read, and he remembers John sitting in the worn armchairs in the dusty flat and Sherlock wants and wants and wants in a way he hasn’t ever before and he hates how badly he doesn’t want the want to go away.

John is such a normal person, however so complex that Sherlock feels infatuated with his extraordinary plainness.

He slides his hand along the rim of the dirty coffee mug that John had used the day before, and his fingertip hits the dried liquid at the spot that John had drunk out of, at exactly 2.36 centimetres past the point where he had begun.

Sherlock feels such a strange sense of complete loneliness and emptiness, but at the same time total claustrophobia within his mind and he is confused.

 -

Three weeks later, Lestrade comes to Sherlock with another case, this one of which he takes. It takes him less than six hours to figure out the culprit, and he texts John. John comes and Sherlock is somewhat pleased.

They hurry to hunt down the man and phone Lestrade. It takes exactly thirty-three minutes and forty-two seconds to find him.

They sit at the park bench, their breathing erratic. John smiles, and it feels as though a mist of forgotten friendship had been pumped into the atmosphere around them.

“You missed it, didn’t you?” John asks, his eyes glistening, simple yet intricately so. He has recently been out, yes, the greasy scent of frying oil clinging to John's coat fabric. Alone, Sherlock sees, because who would buy just crisps at a cafe in the evening? Perhaps John and Mary had had a disagreement or something of the sort.

"Sherlock?" John questions, snapping Sherlock back to the uncomplicated but idiotic world of reality and words.

Sherlock looks confused as to what he is referencing.

“You missed working the cases, you idiot!” John exclaims (Disparagement? Anger? No, John is smiling), watching the confused expression adorning Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock nods, his lips pursed.

“I suppose you are correct," Sherlock speaks sharply.

John smiles and Sherlock just looks straight ahead.

There is a long silence.

John moves closer, his hand like a ghost of warmth on Sherlock’s knee.

John's fingers press into Sherlock's  inner thigh, burning a hole through Sherlock's self-control. They remain that way, touchinh but not feeling and Sherlock hurts.

“Well, I better be going,” John concludes, smoothing his neatly ironed pants before standing up and quickly hailing a cab, disappearing into the thick black madness of the city.

Sherlock does not move his gaze from staring straight ahead and he feels painfully wonderful. The world distorts around him and he melts into his woolen jacket.

-

Careful fingers dance a rhythm along the gentle skin of the back of Sherlock's neck, which he recognizes immediately as Ode to Joy. Sherlock's hands press together and he attempts to think, but John's distracting drumming makes it fairly difficult, yes, a subconscious yet unwanted nag of the fact that Sherlock feels.

Feeling means you exist, and Sherlock doesn't want that, no, he just wants to continue to be a whisper or a thought that just lies on the brink of being human. But John; why did he pick John to unknowingly subject Sherlock to such an array of emotion? John is perhaps the most human of humans, he feels and wants and needs whenever he pleases and Sherlock can't help but wish he was the same.

  
John's drumming wanes into a rhythmless combination of finger movements on Sherlock's neck and Sherlock knows that he is merely making an attempt to keep on being there to keep Sherlock company, as all Sherlock is is a lonely bloke in a cluttered flat. Perhaps he wonders if Sherlock is going to slip into his old habits, drugs, and Sherlock listens because he wants to know. Every three seconds, his hand comes down on Sherlock's neck with an unsteady tap, and Sherlock knows it is due to some type of anxiety, which confirms that John does think Sherlock is slipping back into his old habits.   
  
"I'm not on drugs, you know," Sherlock says, his hands pressed firmly against the table, giving John a sideways glance.   
The drumming stops for a moment.   
"Right," John says, and his fingertips absentmindedly make a circle in Sherlock's pale skin. Oh, how Sherlock wishes he could offer himself to this man, to confirm the fact that he hadn't been using, but it is all a lie, because he has, so he can do no such thing. John stops, his hand hovering over Sherlock's bare neck, and Sherlock realizes that he hasn't moved for a minute.   
"I don't know anything about you, Sherlock," John says, his hand then continuing to trace a pattern along Sherlock's neck.   
"Oh?" Sherlock tenses. "It seems to me that you know plenty."  
"No, I mean the ordinary type of things, your favorite color, perhaps," John questions.   
"I don't believe I have one," Sherlock says, his hands drumming as he thinks. He does have favourite colours, though, oh yes, the grey-blonde of John's unruly hair in the sun after he has taken a shower, or the gentle golden colour of his firm hands, or the colour of the blue-grey sweater, the one with the small hole on the elbow that John had never taken note of. Sherlock shivers at the thought of these things, a constant throb pulsing throughout his chest.   
"Sure, you must have one," John states, rubbing Sherlock's shoulders gently. All this touching makes it hard for Sherlock to think, but does not care because he would give up his mind and all thoughts for John's touch. The urge to do something, Sherlock doesn't know what exactly, fills through him, and he wants to touch John back so badly that he thinks he will implode.

 -

John bursts through the door, a whirlwind of anger and rosy cheeks and striped sweater.

Sherlock sits in his armchair, admittedly a bit taken aback, his violin resting gently under his chin. John throws his jacket on the chair, and Sherlock can tell that Mary and him had had a quarrel without even needing to inquire or deduce further than what was immediately noticeable to the ordinary eye.

Calloused hands reach Sherlock’s shoulders and such force knocks the violin onto the carpet with a muffled thump, and Sherlock is being tugged upward and with such strength that he feels completely vulnerable.

His arms flail and John grunts, tucking Sherlock’s arms about until he is satisfied with their position, and then proceeds to messily fit his arms around Sherlock.

Sherlock feels and he wonders why he feels because immunity to feeling is his strong suit and he feels weak without it. His mind collapses and he sees nothing but _JohnJohnJohnJohn_ and unsatiable heat and he ponders and his great brain is failing to discover the secrets and guidelines of such a gesture.

Within moments, John’s body is gone and John is tugging at his hair and pacing about, and it is obvious he feels remorse for his friendly action and Sherlock doesn’t understand how it is possible for someone to change their mind about something so quickly.

Sherlock contemplates reaching for John to attempt to reassure but his lanky arms do not know where they would belong so he decides that would have no positive outcome.

John mutters a string of colourful curses and he turns back towards Sherlock, his anger evident as he bores a hole through Sherlock with his fiery stare, although in the most John-like of ways he is as gentle as he is rough.

Really, it is Sherlock’s job to provide the unexplained actions in the friendship, but the embace given by John is, according to Sherlock, of a greater importance than any of Sherlock’s. Sherlock decides he likes it like this.

John pulls at a string in his sweater and it begins to unravel in a coiled mess, and Sherlock thinks that John pulled on Sherlock in a similar way, because now he is coming undone and if continued he supposes he will completely fall apart.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, John comes back, and Sherlock is pleased. They take a trip to Scotland Yard to check on the cases that puzzled the ordinary imbeciles that made up the place. Sherlock sits at the table, discussing, and Lestrade and John are chuckling about some boring joke of sorts. Sherlock makes the mistake of looking at John, though, the way his legs sat splayed open on the blue plastic chair, and the thin strip of bare skin just above his trousers and below his jumper. Sherlock tentatively leans forward in an attempt to stifle the intriguing images that flutter through his mind, of which he had only experienced once before with The Woman, but those images were different because they had been placed there by her alone. The images Sherlock is seeing are entirely his own creation and he doesn't know how to react.

He rocks back and forth, stimulating a string of nerves that causes him to tremble. With ease, he imagines John's tan body, his smooth, milky skin where the sun and tedious work of previous years left untouched.

The Detective Inspector and John are not paying any attention to Sherlock, lost in their own world of normalcy. Curious, Sherlock presses a finger to the rise in his trousers between his legs, which seems to be the place where these feelings are stemming from. Sure enough, a spark pulses through him at the touch, and he jolts his head up, eyes wide at the discovery of his own body.

"What do you think, Sherlock?" Lestrade questions, bringing Sherlock back into the conversation.

"Interesting, yes, interesting," Sherlock says, his eyes locked straight ahead. Obscene images still shuffle through his thoughts and he can't seem to shake them. "Well, we better be off," John says, his hand resting on Sherlock's knee, and Sherlock adjusts his woolen coat over the bulge in his pants.

-

On a Friday night, John comes into the apartment in a drunken whirlwind. Sherlock isn't surprised, though, he knew that was going to happen due to his knowledge of John's drinking habits and the recent row with Mary. John is, however, much more drunk than Sherlock is prepared for.

"Sherlock," John slurs, stumbling towards Sherlock's confused body in the dusty chair. He falls to his knees, his hands gripping Sherlock's knees.

 It is silent, except for the constant sound of breathing.

"Let me," John begins, his fingers reaching for the zipper on Sherlock's trousers. Sherlock is growing more and more confused by the second.

John leans forward, pressing his mouth sloppily to the bare patch of skin above Sherlock's belt, and Sherlock's skin melts at the touch, the feeling feathering about his body.

"John, no," Sherlock manages to hiss, making a sorry attempt to brush off the hands of the elder man beneath him.

"You make me feel like I'm not home, Sherlock," John whispers into Sherlock's hip, his breath burning an agonizing hole into his skin. Sherlock nearly whimpers, his nails digging slow into John's shoulders.

"Mary, John, think of Mary. I know you had a row, but you feel remorse, obviously, because you went out for a drink to forget, and you fancy taking out your lust on me, John, that much is clear, although you could easily have picked up a woman at the bar you were at, the beers were cheap-"

John cuts him off. "Stop thinking, you idiot, just detach yourself from your brilliant deductions and so forth and be ordinary," he scolds, his words blending together as an effect of the alcohol. John tugs down Sherlock's trousers and for once, Sherlock has nothing to say.

"I've never quite had this experience before," Sherlock says, struggling to remain calm. John's fingers graze across Sherlock's milky skin, and Sherlock tightens, his body begging against his will for more.

"Neither have I, not a bloke," John chuckles, Sherlock's mind is on overdrive and he wonders how he hasn't combusted yet. "John, no, you aren't in you prime mental state, this is incorrect," Sherlock tries, but his body is feeling and existing and so utterly alive that he can't muster enough thought into forming a correct argument.

"Bloody hell, shut up!" John hisses, his fingers wrapping around Sherlock's exposed genitalia. John proceeds to kiss the very tip of Sherlock's penis, and Sherlock is at a lack for words and he can't think at all, only feel, his body convulsing and exploding and shivering as John continues to stimulate Sherlock with certain movements of the mouth, the same delicate mouth that is pressed against Mary's, clever, witty, beautiful Mary, day after day after day. A painful amount of satisfaction courses through him at the thought. Sherlock wants John, and here he is, sucking him off, drunk, in a dusty flat at an unimaginably late hour. Sherlock is terribly and wholly pleased. John's movements get faster and faster, and Sherlock's thoughts are propelled out of his head as feeling takes over, his body thrusting upwards into John's waiting mouth. He notices John's pants tugged down as his flatmate's hand moves quickly in his own trousers, and he is overwhelmed with desire and he doesn't know how to cope with such a feeling. Hot fingers dance along Sherlock's cold skin, half clothed bodies writhing together alone in a dim-lit room and gentle touches because even when John is inebriated he is still gentle, domestic, and Sherlock hates it because it means he still belongs to Mary. The feeling burns a pit in his stomach and Sherlock arches his spine, bones jutting out at awkward angles as he struggles to breath and he ejaculates, ejaculates onto his neatly creased trousers and he wonders how he was prepared to spend an entire lifetime without this feeling and then it is over, John is passed out and wasted on the carpet and Sherlock's breathing is staggered as he thinks but fails to do so. Sherlock carries the spent John over to the couch, John's pants still partially pulled down and Sherlock struggles to keep his eyes off the exposed man.

Temptation, however, is a powerful thing, and Sherlock's will caves nearly immediately, his eyes devouring the sleeping John similar to the way he looks at a crime scene. It is painful to think how close the two are. Sherlock kneels, his fingers quivering as he prepares himself to zip up and tuck back away John's naked penis. He leans forward, gently pressing a kiss to the very tip of John's length and he shivers, and everything is frilly and blissful yet terribly and utterly wrong, but Sherlock can't control himself.

Beautiful and poignant yet vulnerable and agonizingly ordinary John is, his limp body draped over the couch and Sherlock aches because it isn't just love he wants, no, he wants it all, deeper than friendship and marriage and love but he doesn't know how to feel such emotions. Perhaps the worst part is that now the feeling of John's gentle kiss is engrained in his mind, sparking imaginary and illogical thoughts that the actions are real and not those of a turned-on drunken man. With a struggle, Sherlock pulls up John's trousers and shuffles into his own room, still trying in vain to fit in all the events into his overwhelmed head.


End file.
